


Rebirth

by teprometo



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Post-Episode: s05e13, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-10
Updated: 2013-04-10
Packaged: 2017-12-08 01:57:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/755647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teprometo/pseuds/teprometo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sixteen hundred years after Camelot, a chance meeting with an old friend forces Merlin to come to terms with what his life has become. In all his years of waiting, Merlin has never quite been able to confront the reality of Arthur’s death.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ash

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Возрождение](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1035363) by [Wintersnow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintersnow/pseuds/Wintersnow)



> This was written for [Merlin Redux prompt #70](http://merlin-redux.livejournal.com/1996.html).
> 
> [anna_unfolding](http://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_unfolding), this fic would never have really gotten off the ground if you hadn't given me such useful feedback so early in the process. You really shaped the final direction of this fic.  
> [sorrylatenew](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sorrylatenew), without you, my second scene would be all feels and no sense-making. Thanks for poking so many holes in this. You're excellent at kicking my crutches out from under me, which sounds violent but is totally necessary.  
> [jelazakazone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jelazakazone), you did an excellent job helping me polish. Thanks so much for your honest feedback.

It was a daily ritual, walking round Glastonbury Tor. Merlin had been doing it almost as long as he could remember, and he had a very long memory. It had been surrounded by water when first he saw it. The land had changed almost as much as the people who inhabited it, and now the Tor stood on a grassy hill, its magical history forgotten like so many pieces of Merlin’s past.

He had tried vainly to lose track of the years, but the mortal world was obsessed with time, surrounded themselves with reminders of their inevitable end. So Merlin ticked off the days like everyone else, waiting for something to come back to him out of all the things he’d lost.

It was overcast the day his past caught up with him, like every other day except that one of the faces under a brolly was familiar, and not because he’d seen it on a billboard or on the telly in one of the pubs he stopped in to warm his hands. He stared openly. People allowed old men their peculiarities, and that was why Merlin chose to look this way—elderly and unassuming, though no one would believe just how ancient he truly was. He stared at this man’s face, clean-shaven as Merlin had never seen it, hair cut so short Merlin couldn’t even tell it was curly, but it was red, and the man’s eyes held a kind of wisdom Merlin knew only came with age—give or take fifteen hundred years.

“Leon,” he said, hands on the man’s shoulders.

“No one’s called me that in many years, friend,” Leon said. He looked confused, as though he recognised Merlin but didn’t, couldn’t quite place him in all the many memories he’d accumulated over the ages.

Merlin would have been shocked to see Leon alive if he hadn’t happened across him in Scotland five hundred years after they both should have died. The vikings were a scourge then, the Crown overwhelmed, and Merlin found Leon in a battlefield. But he had left before Leon could offer a hand of friendship, or worse, ask about Arthur, because he wasn’t ready yet. Even now, Merlin didn’t think he was quite ready for this, but he was happy to see Leon, and ready or not, it was time.

Reaching for his magic, Merlin became young again under the shade of Leon’s brolly. It was almost comical how puzzled Leon looked—not surprised or astonished or scared that wrinkles had faded into smooth skin, long white hair retracting and going black. He squinted and stared and then, tentatively, said, “Merlin?”

Merlin nodded at him. “One and the same.”

“Merlin! I was wondering when I’d run into you again.” Leon’s grin was thrilled, the same as ever, and he pulled Merlin into a tight hug. Merlin realised with a detached kind of surprise, the way you notice it’s already October, that it was the first time he’d been touched in centuries.

“We’re grabbing a pint,” Leon said, arm slung over Merlin’s shoulder, leaving him no choice but to follow alongside. Merlin looked to the Tor with longing. After all this time, he still hated leaving Arthur there alone. It never occurred to Merlin that Arthur was the one who had left him. Almost never.

Merlin had gone back to Avalon immediately after his last encounter with Leon, convinced to his core that seeing him had meant something—that Arthur’s return was at hand. That was when he’d started his vigil, his daily walks around the Tor, had stationed his life around waiting for Arthur. And then nothing had happened—nothing. He stayed so long that his ever-youthful face became the subject of whispers, until he put on the mask of age and was never noticed again. Yet here was where Leon found him.

The rain picked up as they walked, Merlin’s shoulders tucked under Leon’s arm in a way that felt a bit too familiar, especially given the awkwardness of their last encounter, and Merlin was soaked up to his knees by the time they happened upon a pub. He had been there once or twice, and it was all but empty this early in the day—it wasn’t even ten yet. Leon draped his overcoat over a chair beside the petrol fireplace, a modern convenience Merlin had grown quite fond of: all the warmth and none of the mess. Tending fires was one thing he didn’t miss about his first life. Not that he missed much about it, to be honest. Not that he’d lived any life after.

The world had changed around him, and he was never quite sure if he’d changed with it or if he was the same person who had laughed with Gwen, had talked over dinner with Gaius, had lived however briefly finding joy in the company of others. It felt insurmountably far away from him even now with Leon a mere metre away.

Technology had almost entirely replaced magic in Merlin’s life, but he hadn’t really noticed the change. Each moment was spent merely persisting, making it through until Arthur came back to him, and every step humankind took towards enlightenment was just one more thing Merlin would have to explain to Arthur.

He kept his coat on and sat across from Leon, hands resting on the table. They watched the mid-morning news on the telly in the corner until their beer arrived, but Merlin hadn’t been paying attention. He was too busy preparing himself for the inevitable discussion of Arthur, and he had no idea how he was going to get through this.

Their conversation was safe at first, Merlin steering Leon towards talking about his family and his job as a university professor. It was a joke, well-meaning and rather funny, that tore open the subject of the past. A simple comparison between the relative dangers of training rookie knights and raising daughters in the ‘90s ruptured the careful barrier between all the people Leon had ever been, and shed a harsh light on the only person Merlin would ever be.

“You should have seen Arthur when he was small and could barely move under the weight of his armour,” Leon said with a wide, reminiscent smile. “He’d spend hours just picking up his sword. Not even swinging it. Just getting it out of his scabbard or picking it up off the ground. So strange.”

The vision of Arthur, young and alive, his mouth downturned in concentration, was unbearable. Merlin felt lashed apart inside, his carefully concealed longing leaking out into every crevice of his consciousness. He cleared his throat and forced a smile, looking at his half-empty beer and wondering if he should order another or find a reason to leave. This had been a terrible idea.

“So you married Gwen,” he said, wanting to talk about anything but Arthur. “Fathered a royal dynasty and all that.”

Leon’s laugh was genuine and warm around the lip of his glass. “She had to convince me,” he said, smiling at the memory. “Said the kingdom needed an heir.”

“Do you have any distant grandchildren still wandering around today?”

“Only about a million. I lost track a few hundred years ago. It just stopped being important after a while.”

“I know that feeling,” Merlin said, finishing his beer in two gulps, not mentioning all the things that had lost meaning to him after Arthur had died: his friends, his kingdom, his destiny. Leon gestured at the bartender to bring them another round.

“So you still have—you can still ...” Leon said, waving his fingers around.

“Yeah.” Merlin nodded. “Not much use for it anymore, though. How is it ….” He paused, thinking the question might be insensitive. “Well, how are you still alive?”

“How are you?” Leon countered, eyebrow raised.

“Magic.”

“I assume it’s the same for me.” Leon shrugged and emptied his glass. “Truthfully, I’ve never known why. I did a lot of miraculous not dying back then, and then I did some miraculous not ageing. I don’t know much about my father. Died before I was born. Might have something to do with it.”

“My father was a dragonlord,” Merlin said, unthinking. He hadn’t thought of his father for quite some time. “I guess so was I.” He looked up and smiled mirthlessly. “Until there were no more dragons.”

The weight of that memory still made Merlin breathless sometimes. Kilgharrah had died painfully, and so had Aithusa a mere two hundred years later, crippled and mute and filled with a sadness Merlin knew because he felt it too. It had all been such a waste. Without Arthur, none of their lives had any meaning.

Leon thanked the waiter for the beers and asked for a basket of chips. Then he looked down at his hands, and the gesture felt so foreboding that Merlin blurted, “How was everyone?” before Leon could mention Arthur.

“Great,” Leon said, his brow furrowed at the abruptness of Merlin’s question. “I mean, not right away. It took Percival a while. And Gwen had lost so much.”

Guilt crept up in Merlin, winding itself around his gut. “And Gaius? How was he?”

“He understood, Merlin.” Leon leaned across the table, offering his hand, but Merlin couldn’t take it. “We all did. No one blamed you.”

“I don’t think anyone could have understood,” Merlin said, running his finger through the ring of condensation around his glass. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean that the way it sounds. You were such good friends to me. And to … well.”

“Arthur.” It bothered Merlin how Leon wasn’t afraid of the name, of the strong wave of memory Merlin attached to it. He couldn’t respond, just stared at the table wishing he were somewhere else.

“He loved you, Merlin.”

“Please don’t,” Merlin said, looking up.

“Okay,” Leon said, voice soft. He looked at the telly for a moment and then turned back, a smile on his face, and his social grace filled Merlin with relief. “What have you been doing to keep busy, then?”

“Not much of anything.” Merlin pushed up his coat sleeves and then decided against it, pulling them back down again. “Staying out of sight, mostly.”

“Well, you must have had some adventures. Ever try your hand at fatherhood?”

Merlin shook his head.

“Marriage?”

“No.”

“Any relationship with another human being?” Leon seemed impatient, and it stung more than it should have.

“I’m boring. Let’s talk about you.”

“In a minute,” Leon said, waving a hand in front of himself. “You’re immortal, and you’ve never bothered with life. Am I getting this right?”

Merlin was miserable. He took a big gulp from his beer, hoping to speed along the interaction and get back to his non-life.

Leon sighed and massaged his forehead. “What are you waiting for?”

“Arthur,” Merlin said before he could catch himself, as though it were obvious. “I’m waiting for Arthur.”

“Merlin, no. That’s—”

“He’s coming back,” Merlin said, and the edge in his voice sounded dangerous even to him.

“It’s been fifteen, sixteen hundred years.” Leon sounded incredulous, as though he couldn’t believe Merlin had overlooked this piece of data.

“I’m not making it up, so please just believe me when I tell you a very old, very wise, very frustrating dragon told me as much.”

“I … Merlin.” Leon’s raised eyebrow was absurdly hilarious, and Merlin laughed. It felt good.

“This is what I know. Arthur is the once and future king. The once is over and done with. He died.” He said it like it was easy, like hearing it out loud didn’t carve out jagged strips of loss that he tried not to think about. He shook his head to drive out the image of Arthur’s last moments, his eyes drifting shut at Merlin’s whispered _stay with me_ , his inability to fulfil Merlin’s last request. The truth of it burned deep, that Arthur had actually died. He hadn’t gone to sleep or sailed away—he’d _died_.

And no one else had seen him that way. Only Merlin carefully placed him in the boat. Only Merlin smoothed down his cape, linked his fingers, adjusted his hair—pressed a hand to his beloved king’s forehead and couldn’t bear to let him go but did it anyway. He had watched that boat float away from him every day, and there was only one spark of solace in the world. Merlin swallowed and nodded, belief washing over him. "The future, though. He'll come back when Albion is in great need."

Leon sighed and shook his head. “The world has gone through many periods of great need. Albion doesn’t even exist anymore.”

“I know that,” Merlin said. He swirled his beer, watching the little white patch of foam twirl in his glass. “But why are we alive if it isn’t to be here when he wakes up?”

Leon shrugged at that, perhaps having settled his curiosity about his own immortality long ago. “And you’ve done nothing but wait all this time on the off chance that a dragon was right about something?”

“I don’t have anything else,” Merlin said, and it sounded small and broken to his own ears. He felt his face flush with embarrassment.

“Merlin, how would you even know? If he were back, he could be anyone.”

“I would know,” Merlin said, harsh and confident. “I recognised you, didn’t I?”

“But would he recognise you?”

Leon fell silent, eating his chips with furrowed brow. Merlin stared at his hands, considering that Arthur might not remember him. It ached, thinking he may have to live forever alone with the memory of their life together.

“He wouldn’t want this,” Leon said at length. “He’d want you to live.”

“Don’t tell me about him,” Merlin snapped, anger swelling up hot and sudden. “None of you knew him like I did.”

“I know that. I do. I know.” Leon’s voice was frustratingly calm. It made Merlin feel like a child, over-affected and out of control.

“I can’t talk about him. I just can’t. So we can talk about all the wonderful things you’ve done since your king died.” The bitterness in Merlin’s voice was consuming, filled the air between them with unease.

“I mourned him just like everyone else did,” Leon said, earnest. “He was my leader. I respected him.”

“But you didn’t love him. And neither did Gwen.” Merlin felt sick with himself, talking about someone who was long dead this way. Talking about Leon’s dead _spouse_ for fuck’s sake. “I’m sorry.” Merlin squinted, ashamed. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

“It’s fine,” Leon said, and he sounded like he meant it. “I had a whole lifetime with her, and I let her go. I’ve been married since. Each love is different. Each person changes you, makes your life different for having shared it.”

It was shrouded advice, and it made Merlin feel defensive. “I don’t want that.”

“You want it,” Leon said, nodding. “But you want it with him. Because you never got it. And this stupid promise has you stuck. I’ve never known anyone to love so stubbornly, Merlin.”

Merlin smiled down at the table, scratching his thumbnail across a deep groove in its surface. “I always was the worst servant ever,” he said, fond. He remembered the way Arthur had bemoaned Merlin’s abilities, his intelligence, his strength. And then there was something else, and it hit Merlin so hard he nearly lost his breath. “Arthur once said I was the bravest man he ever met. Proved him wrong, didn’t I?”

Leon rapped his knuckles against the table and said, “It’s not too late.”

Merlin just looked at him, unable to express the way he felt, how tied he was to Arthur’s fate. It must have spoken for him, because Leon shook his head and said, “He doesn’t deserve this. No one is worth this.”

“I don’t wait for him because he deserves it,” Merlin said, an incredulous laugh threatening to bubble over. “I do it because I can’t live without him.”

Leon’s brow furrowed, and he fell silent. He finished his basket of chips, and Merlin tried to think of something that could make them part on good terms. The problem was that Leon was _right_. If Merlin was going to teach Arthur about the world, he’d have to be a part of it, and that meant making some changes. He finished his beer and didn’t feel any closer to knowing what they might be.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Leon said at last, breaking through Merlin’s anxiety. Merlin squinted at him in confusion. “About him loving you. He did. I don’t think you could really see it, but I knew him my whole life, and there was never anyone else. He was….” Leon’s voice broke, and for the first time, Merlin could see the residual ache in him. Part of him still longed to serve his king, and this was _important_ to Leon. It made Merlin feel less alone, and he was overcome with gratitude. Leon let out an unsteady sigh. “There was no one else he’d have rather been with in the end. It’s always given me great comfort to think that he was at peace.”

Merlin’s throat felt unbearably tight, and when he looked into Leon’s eyes, they were glistening. It took Merlin a long moment to figure out how to speak again.

“When he comes back, I’ll find you,” he said. “I think he’ll want to see you.”

“Oh, Merlin.” Leon shook his head and reached his hand across the table again. This time, Merlin took it. “I hope you’re right. I really do.”

Merlin squeezed his hand, then stood and left a tenner on the table. “He’s coming back,” he said, nodding his head as though that would make it more true. Leon smiled and dug through his wallet.

“Ring me anytime. I could use an old friend,” he said, handing Merlin a business card with a university logo stamped in the corner. The card belonged to a Dr Lucas Wallis, and Merlin squinted at it in confusion until he realised this must be Leon’s new name. He gave Leon half a smile and pocketed the card, then turned towards the door.

Merlin was old again before he even stepped out into the rain.

Halfway to the Tor, the hopeless routine of this particular stretch of road struck him. And if seeing Leon all those years ago had brought him to this life, maybe seeing him today should mark the end of it. Merlin looked at the Tor and felt heavy with all the things it represented for him, yet with a simple nod and a tremulous heart, he let it go. He turned back towards town, resolving to experience something new.


	2. Flame

Merlin woke to the startling nearness of a voice. Someone was hovering over him, indistinct in the darkness of the room. The tip of a blade was nudged up against Merlin’s neck, steady in the hands of someone who felt no nervousness in wielding a weapon.

“Where am I?” It was a man’s voice, in the old tongue, distantly familiar, and Merlin _felt_ it, sudden and overwhelming. The world had changed, and as consciousness settled in, so did the knowledge that Arthur was back, and he was _here_ , leaning over Merlin’s bed. He couldn’t consider things like _why_ and _how,_ lost as he was in _what_ and, beneath it all, a calm and pleased—

“Arthur,” Merlin whispered, suffused with awe.

“Where am I?” Arthur repeated, punctuating his words with impatience. He pressed his blade ever so slightly against the dip between Merlin’s collar bones, and he felt the cut, sly and wet and visceral, before it healed itself.

“Arthur, it’s me,” Merlin said, and his voice was old; his _body_ was old. He transformed himself back into the Merlin Arthur would remember, and several aches eased out of him as his muscles swelled and his skin tightened against them.

“Look at me,” Merlin said, and this time, he sounded like the person he’d been then. He realised how confused and terrified Arthur must be, but in that moment, he couldn’t help a single selfish thought: _Please remember me._

Arthur gasped and pulled the blade away slightly, then pressed it in again. “It’s dark,” he said, and his voice was unsteady, _scared_.

Merlin lit the candles on his night table with a small flare of magic and made them burn unnaturally bright, not wanting the harshness of the overhead light, or the fear in Arthur’s eyes as he had his first brush with the wonders of the modern world. The light from the flames flickered across Arthur’s face, and Merlin couldn’t find his breath. This was _him_ —actually him, and he still looked the same. All the hardness in Arthur’s gaze fell away as he looked down at Merlin. His lips parted and he said Merlin’s name—breathed it, really, weak and disbelieving.

“Sire,” Merlin whispered, carefully bringing his hand up to wrap around Arthur’s wrist. He took the dagger from Arthur and set it on the table. When he looked back, Arthur seemed exhausted, his eyes drooping and shoulders hunched. He kept hold of Arthur’s wrist as he sat up, unwilling to break the contact between them lest Arthur disappear.

“Are you all right?” Merlin asked, looking up into Arthur’s tired face.

“My armour feels too heavy,” Arthur said, small-sounding, and Merlin was filled with the deep and familiar urge to take care of him.

“Let me help you with it.”

Merlin’s chest fluttered with surprise and a kind of longing as Arthur fell to his knees at the side of Merlin’s bed. Arthur barely held his head up as Merlin untied his cape, leaned forward to unbuckle his belt, keeping the bed sheet carefully positioned around his own hips.

“Where am I?” Arthur asked again, his voice muffled behind the chain mail Merlin was pulling over his head.

Merlin considered how he should answer, as _where_ wasn’t as important as _when_ , and _when_ would probably be too much for Arthur right now. So Merlin instead decided to tell him, “You’re with me.”

Arthur seemed to accept that answer, eyes closed as Merlin’s fingers worked open his gorget. He had done this a thousand times, and he still remembered every buckle, every strip of leather, every stubborn clasp. He moved more carefully than he ever had, caressing instead of yanking, overwhelmed with nostalgia. He never thought he’d do this again, strip the hard edges away from Arthur and see him become vulnerable. As he slid a vambrace off of Arthur’s wrist, Merlin was overtaken with a sudden, horrible, and _loud_ sob. He paused his movement, just holding Arthur’s hand as his body shook and his face grew wet with tears he couldn’t stop.

He sounded wrecked and ugly, wheezing sobs tearing past his throat as he looked down at Arthur’s lovely face, recommitting to memory the way the shadows fell on his cheeks. Arthur just looked at him, brow knit with confusion, weariness drawn in his downturned lips.

Merlin took a deep breath and calmed himself. He set to removing the other vambrace, and Arthur asked, voice flat, “Was I dead?”

Merlin took in a sharp breath and looked at his face, but Arthur appeared more curious than scared, so he said, “Yes.”

“Oh,” was Arthur’s nonplussed response. After a beat, he said, “Am I still dead?”

“No.” Merlin shook his head and smiled, taking Arthur’s face in his hands and feeling a thrill at the touch, the heat emanating from his blood-warmed skin. “You’re alive. Welcome back.”

Arthur smiled then, soft and warm, and Merlin was struck by how easy it would be to kiss him, to just lean forward and press his mouth to Arthur’s and try to close the all the distance between them. Arthur’s voice startled him out of the thought, and he forced himself to look away from Arthur’s mouth, settling instead on his eyes.

“How long was I dead?”

Merlin shook his head and stroked his fingers through Arthur’s hair. He knew the gesture was too intimate, but he needed too intimate, and Arthur leaned his head into the touch, which had Merlin thinking of kissing him again, of pulling him into the bed and over Merlin’s body, the heat of him burning along Merlin’s skin. He’d ached for it all these years, wondering if Arthur had wanted this. As Arthur was dying in his arms, Merlin was so mindless, so lost in helpless grief that when Arthur had brought his hand to the back of Merlin’s head, Merlin had simply pressed back against it. But ever after, he’d wondered if he was meant to kiss Arthur to sleep.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Merlin said, and his voice sounded too low and rough. “Sleep first.”

Arthur nodded and stood. He removed his boots and gambeson, leaving him in his red tunic, familiar and intensely out of place here in Merlin’s modern flat. And Merlin never wanted anything of Arthur’s to feel out of place in Merlin’s home, wanted Arthur to fit here seamlessly, simply. It wouldn’t be that easy, Merlin knew, but he slid the sheets down next to him anyway and looked up at Arthur, silently begging him to at least make this easy.

But of course this was Arthur, and Arthur didn’t do easy, no matter how tired or lost he was.

“Merlin,” Arthur said, eyebrow raised, sounding like his old self, all petulance and condescension. “I am not sharing a _bed_ with you.”

“Yes, you are,” Merlin said, fatigued and unwilling to go back to the way things were, the status quo of pretending they weren’t this close. Arthur hadn’t had time to think of this, apparently, but Merlin had had more than enough to hate himself for every missed opportunity, every time he thought he was imagining Arthur’s eyes settling on his lips, thought he was misreading Arthur’s gestures. As though giving Merlin his mother’s sigil was anything less than a declaration of _I want you with me forever_. Arthur hadn’t come back at the Tor. He hadn’t been born to a new family. He had been dropped into Merlin’s bedroom, and Merlin was _done_ pretending he didn’t know what they meant to each other.

Arthur’s eyes went wide, cheeks pink, and he looked like a child who’d been caught sneaking sweets from the kitchen. Not fear the way a servant may have felt it—no one would ever punish the prince for something so innocent. They’d probably pat him on the cheek and slip him a little bit more—just like Merlin was about to give him _more._ The urge to pull Arthur into his bed came on hot and thick as he looked up at his king, just a man now, but still— _his_ king. Arthur’s hands were restless at his sides, twitching and flexing in indecision. So Merlin grabbed them and pulled, did what he should have done millennia ago and _decided._ Arthur stumbled and caught himself with one arm on either side of Merlin, his face hovering over Merlin’s, and Merlin realised with adrenaline-slowed unease that the sheet had slid down his legs. After several centuries living alone, he didn’t bother with pyjamas anymore.

Arthur’s eyes dropped and a blush spread across his face as he stared. Merlin was hard and didn’t try to conceal it. Arthur didn’t move or even breathe, just looked down at Merlin’s cock, apparently paralysed. Unsteadied by his need, Merlin raised a hand to settle against Arthur’s hip, and when Arthur glanced back up to Merlin’s face, he didn’t look tired anymore.

“Now you know,” Merlin said. He wasn’t ashamed, but his cheeks burned anyway, hot under Arthur’s gaze. Arthur didn’t move away, so Merlin pulled his legs back onto the bed, one of Arthur’s hands sliding helplessly along Merlin’s thighs. He lay back and lifted his arms over his head, body stretched along the bed, sheet low, letting Arthur look his fill, and he _did._ He stared openly, hand resting on Merlin’s leg, clammy and too still, as though Merlin hadn’t made it obvious what was being offered.

Merlin felt a hint of uncertainty as Arthur looked at him but did nothing else. It was possible he’d been wrong all this time, that Arthur had truly only seen him as a loyal servant, perhaps even a friend. But when Merlin sat up to pull the sheet back over himself, Arthur was swift in pinning him down to the bed, the mattress dipping under the pressure of the knee now perched on the edge.

“I’ve waited ten years to see you like this,” Arthur said, his voice low and rough. “Let me look.”

“Yes, Sire,” Merlin said, slipping into a wry grin he didn’t fully feel. He stretched his arms back up, arched his back, writhed his hips, emboldened by how much he desired this. If Arthur wanted a show, Merlin would give him one; Merlin would give him _anything_.

Arthur climbed fully onto the bed, and Merlin moaned at just that—just having Arthur in his bed, and the promise of more. Arthur’s hands smoothed over his abdomen, his chest, down over his hips, and Merlin couldn’t breathe.

“Tell me how long I’ve been dead,” Arthur said, thumbs drawing down the creases of Merlin’s hips.

“Fuck, not now,” Merlin groaned, lifting his hips up into Arthur’s touch.

Arthur shuffled up the bed until his thighs pressed up against Merlin’s, spreading his legs, and Merlin thought he might pass out. “Right now. Tell me how long.”

“Tomorrow.”

“How many lovers have you had?”

The shift was instantaneous and perplexing, and Merlin breathed out a confused, “None.”

“Why?”

“Arthur,” Merlin groaned.

“Tell me.” Arthur nosed his way up Merlin’s abdomen, across his ribs, into the hair under his arms.

“God, Arthur, why do you think?”

“Because they weren’t me?” His voice was low and even, but he looked uncertain, as though he may have said something stupid.

“Yes,” Merlin hissed as Arthur’s tongue drew across the hollow under his arm, the action so intensely _intimate_ that it made Merlin want to confess everything.

“Then tell me how long.”

“You’ll panic.”

Arthur grabbed Merlin’s hand and shoved it against his groin, against the line of his rigid cock, so fucking hard it made Merlin lightheaded.

“Nothing is going to stop me from being with you tonight, so just tell me.”

“A little over sixteen hundred years,” Merlin said, eyes shut tight, expecting Arthur to pull away and perhaps vomit.

But instead, Merlin’s hands were pinned above his head again, and Arthur moved from Merlin’s underarm to his mouth, the taste of his own sweat thick on Arthur’s lips. Arthur’s tongue pried into his mouth, licking deep around a groan. Arthur was _kissing_ him, hard and raw, and Merlin had to squeeze his legs around Arthur’s hips to remember how to breathe. He sucked on Arthur’s lips, made him sloppy with it, tongue slipping in and out of his mouth until Arthur pulled away.

Arthur’s hands came to grip Merlin’s face, holding his head in place as he kissed him all over—cheekbones and eyelids and chin and nose.

“Why?” Arthur said finally, staring down at Merlin’s face with wide eyes gone dark with need. “I knew you were loyal, but _god_ , Merlin.”

“I know you can’t understand the way I feel, but this is mine, and don’t you dare pity me for it.”

“No, I don’t. I don’t. I can’t even … I don’t know how to tell you what I feel.”

“Do you want to know how I feel? Because I haven’t thought of anything else for over a thousand years,” Merlin said, the burden of everything he’d left unsaid finally, mercifully lifted. “I haven’t thought of anything but the way you looked in the sunshine or how you’d grab my jacket when we were under attack. And I told myself that you loved me—all these years, I told myself that—but I don’t need that from you. I just need you to know that I love you. I’ve loved you every moment of every day, and I can’t....” Merlin choked on the words, dizzy with the weight of his confession.

Arthur’s brow was furrowed, but his fingers were steady where they cradled Merlin’s face, so Merlin continued. “I can’t tell you how hard every day has been since you left. I don’t want to. I just want to tell you that I love you, and I want to tell you that all the time, and I was stupid before, and you were always everything to me.”

“Merlin—”

“I don’t expect anything from you,” Merlin interrupted, because he couldn’t bear it if Arthur disrupted the careful magic of the moment. “I know things haven’t changed for you, that you’re the same person you were when I held you and you fucking _died_ , Arthur. I just want to kiss you and forget.”

Arthur’s thumb stroked across Merlin’s cheek. “Thank you for what you did. For … holding me, I—”

“Please not now,” Merlin said, squeezing his eyes shut tight and trying not to think of Arthur’s lifeless body, of arranging his limbs in his burial boat and sending him off to rest.

Arthur stroked Merlin’s bottom lip, and Merlin couldn’t help pressing his tongue to that thumb and pulling it into his mouth. He’d barely wrapped his lips around it when Arthur tore the digit away and dug his fingers into the hair at Merlin’s nape, crashing their mouths together with a needy groan.

Merlin sobbed as Arthur kissed him, wrapped his arms around him and grasped him as tightly as he could, a thousand years of want torn away as Arthur’s tongue licked open his mouth and took from him, took all his pain and need and replaced it with his presence, slick and hot and tangible.

Merlin leaned up and kissed Arthur’s chest, dragged lips and tongue between loose laces like he’d fantasised about ages ago. Arthur’s hands sliding down his sides smoothed away every year of bitterness, and Merlin felt himself reborn beneath Arthur’s weight, joy blooming in his chest where only longing and regret had lived for sixteen hundred years.

Arthur was ravenous, his mouth everywhere as though he, too, had been lost without this. He took Merlin apart with his still-calloused hands and his eager tongue and the barely-there rocking of his hips, then stitched him back together, weaving himself into all the threadbare patches of Merlin’s soul. Merlin was lost in Arthur, in how much it felt like being home again after so many years of vagrancy.

“Darling,” Merlin whispered into Arthur’s hair, kissed into Arthur’s skin. He moved his hands down to the fastenings on Arthur’s trousers, getting them unlaced and shoving them and his underclothes down, Arthur’s cock slipping into the crease of Merlin’s hip.

Arthur kissed him hard and deep, hands clutching desperately at Merlin’s hair. He ground hard against Merlin, drew a harsh gasp from him, and Merlin felt dizzy with his arousal and the scent of Arthur surrounding him.

“How do you want—” Merlin gasped, lost in the feel of Arthur’s body against him.

“Always wanted … thought about ….” Arthur’s face was buried in his shoulder, his voice muffled and stuttering. _“Do you know how gorgeous your mouth is?”_

Merlin felt dizzy, all the air crushed out of his lungs by the intensity of his desire. “You want … oh, fuck, you want … _yes,_ Arthur.” Merlin’s fingers gripped Arthur’s biceps as he rocked harder up into his hips

“Merlin.” Arthur gasped, fingers dipping into Merlin’s mouth and tracing over his tongue. “Are you—”

Merlin whimpered helplessly and sucked down on Arthur’s fingers as he came, eyes closed, spurting hot, wet streaks between their bodies. The feel and smell of Arthur urged him along, and his orgasm lasted long after his cock had spent itself. He felt like every inch of him was on fire, like it would never end, like it _couldn’t._ And when Merlin finally looked up, Arthur’s eyebrows shot up and a hand came to rest against his cheek. “Your eyes,” Arthur murmured, private and awed. “So beautiful.”

Merlin sobbed through the rest of his orgasm, confused and needy, and Arthur stroked his face, telling him, “That’s it. Take as long as you need,” and he was so fucking _tender_ and exposed. The look on Arthur’s face was something Merlin had never seen, unguarded and full of adoration, and it was _for him_. Merlin’s entire body was shaking by the time he came down, his chest heaving, and Arthur kissed around his mouth, open and sloppy.

Merlin manoeuvred Arthur onto his side and sucked kisses down his chest, his mind clouded with a haze of sated desire and affection. He slid down Arthur’s body and pressed his nose into his hip, sucking in the scent of his arousal. Pulling Arthur’s leg to hitch around his shoulder, Merlin buried himself in Arthur’s sex, in the hardness resting against his cheek and the scratch of coarse hair under his nose. He slid his hand up the back of Arthur’s thigh, massaging in his effort to memorise the feel of the muscle there. His fingers brushed the soft, hairless skin in the secret curve of his inner thigh and moved up, just barely slipping into the cleft of his arse as he squeezed. He groaned against Arthur’s heated skin because, god, his arse was perfect, felt like it belonged in the covetous expanse of Merlin’s palm.

“Get on with it,” Arthur said, voice strained, and his hips hitched helplessly against Merlin’s face.

“Yes, my lord,” Merlin said, voice impudent, as he drew his head back, letting Arthur’s cock slide along his cheek, the tip eventually grazing across his lips. Arthur’s fingers found their way to Merlin’s hair, gripping and positioning his head. Merlin looked up and met Arthur’s eyes as he let his mouth fall open. He raised an eyebrow, silently urging Arthur to press forward, to slip into his mouth and claim what belonged to him.

Slowly, Arthur’s cock passed over Merlin’s lips, pressed against his tongue, and they watched each other as Merlin closed his mouth around it and sucked. Arthur let out a low groan and outlined Merlin’s lips with a thumb, tracing around the thickness of his prick. Closing his eyes, Merlin leaned forward, taking in as much of Arthur as he could. He gripped Arthur’s arse as he sucked him down, relishing the taste of him, the sound of his wrecked breathing.

Arthur was perfect, his cock long and straight and heavy, a smooth slide in Merlin’s mouth. Merlin pulled Arthur’s foreskin between his lips, licking and sucking, encouraged by the fingers kneading his shoulder. He wanted to drown in this, to keep Arthur this open for him forever. Every time Arthur seemed on the verge of coming, Merlin would pull away, kiss the skin of his abdomen, his hips, lick sloppy paths down behind his balls—anything to keep Arthur moaning and breathless and _his_.

“Merlin,” Arthur growled after what must have been at least the seventh time Merlin eased off. “We can go again in the morning, I promise, just please—”

Merlin cut him off with a hard suck that made Arthur’s voice crackle and disappear. Merlin’s movements were determined as he stared up into Arthur’s face, taking note of his red cheeks and his slack mouth, the way he couldn’t quite look back at Merlin, eyes too wild and unfocussed. And when he came, it was with a shout, his hips grinding against Merlin’s face. Merlin swallowed down everything Arthur gave him, fingers caressing mindlessly along the curve of his arse. When Arthur stopped hitching up against him, he pulled his mouth away, tucking Arthur’s reddened prick under his chin and kissing his hip. He looked up at Arthur’s exhausted, familiar face and prayed that he could always have this.


	3. Warmth

Merlin’s tea is just this side of too bitter and their table by the window too cold, but Arthur’s back is leaned up against him, which still makes every minor discomfort disappear. It’s Wednesday, which means he and Arthur are meeting Leon at Starbucks so Arthur can drink one of his favourite sugary seasonal lattes. Merlin gets a kick out of reading the exams Leon is marking for his year-one uni students, their “in conclusion”s eliciting a snort or two over the course of the hour. The Sonic the Hedgehog theme plays from the tinny speakers on Leon’s iPad, which is resting against Arthur’s knees as he runs Sonic through the level, collecting even the most carefully hidden rings, because for some reason Arthur is excellent at this game.

They see Leon often now, largely because he shares Arthur’s love of beer and crisps and football, and the three of them can spend hours chatting over Indian takeaway, which Arthur thinks is the greatest thing the modern world has invented (though the iPad is surely a close second). They’ve taken up fencing, Arthur and Leon, and Arthur thinks he’s funny when, nearly every time Leon scores a point, he shouts, “Spry for an old man!”

All in all, Arthur is adjusting beautifully, and Merlin owes it to Leon, whose strong roots in modern society and knack for teaching have welcomed Arthur and Merlin both into a world that seems like it might one day be home to them. Leon’s eldest daughter, Meredith, is fascinated by them and has started Disaster Watch, a blog she uses to catalog all the things in the world that may have led to Arthur’s return.

But Merlin doesn’t care what the world wants from Arthur—from all three of them. He and Leon are ready, of course, to stand with Arthur until the end, but what he knows about Arthur now is more important than destiny. His hands are always cold, and he loves to irritate Merlin by stuffing them up the back of his shirt. He’s shit at learning modern English and wanders around London like a caveman, grunting and pointing at things he wants but is too embarrassed to ask for in his chaotic linguistic mix. He has a strange fondness for cooking and is mildly terrified by the vacuum cleaner. And he looks at Merlin like he’s the most beautiful thing Arthur’s ever seen.

Most nights before bed, Arthur asks Merlin to tell him a story about their first life together, about using magic to help Arthur without his knowledge. He often guffaws, disbelieving, but buries his nose in Merlin’s neck, and Merlin can sense his happiness. He doesn’t tell Arthur this, doesn’t want to spoil the daily joy he gets from learning the world, but he feels it in Arthur—the thing he feels in Leon and in himself. When Merlin wakes with a start in the night and Arthur curls around him, muttering, “I’m here. Not going anywhere,” Merlin knows it’s true. He places his palm over Arthur’s steady-beating heart and knows that it won’t stop, and when he kisses the lines of Arthur’s face, he knows they won’t grow any deeper. He doesn’t think he deserves this joy, but then, no one ever gets what they deserve.


End file.
